"But I slept with him!" I yelled.
"Yes, because he knew you would!" she yelled back. "Oh my God, Amber - how fucking stupid are you? I know you're not a moron, but are you so blind to his bullshit that you can't see through him? The girls who all looked like you - the 'suicide attempt'. It was all so you'd feel sorry for him and take him back. There is not a single thing he's said or done that wasn't about manipulating you in some way, shape or form. He's a sociopath - and I know sociopaths - he's ticking so many boxes on the Hare checklist that he makes Tony Soprano look like Mr. Rodgers. You're not a person to him - not really. You're the leading lady to the starring role he's playing in his own life - and that's all you are. He has to get the girl, because that's how the script plays out in his fucked up little head. You're a reward. An objective."
I stared at the floor. I couldn't keep listening to this. She'd hated him from the start and never understood him.
"I'm not surprised your Dad was worried," she continued. "Have you looked in a mirror lately? You look sick - you look gray. Do you even have enough body fat to ovulate any more? There's a box of tampons collecting dust in the bathroom..."
"I was on birth control."
"Was?" Her raised eyebrow said it all, and I slammed out of the room as if she was my mother. I'd stopped taking the pill when Justin and I broke up – they gave me moodswings and I was relieved to stop taking them. I'd had condoms with me the night after the hospital - I remember because he'd bitched about wearing one. He'd promised he wouldn't come inside me, but I'd stood my ground, thinking of all the girls he'd probably said that to in the last couple of months. Was it possible that he'd taken it off without me knowing?
I don't know how I knew he’d done that, but I did. Like I’d always had a sixth sense for his crap right from the beginning. Just like I knew I was pregnant.
Chapter Fifteen
Amber
If I believed in ghosts, this house would be haunted.
I need to pee, but my muscles are still tight and twitchy from my last orgasm, and it takes forever to go. I sit and shiver and stare at the tiles – the grout between them is remarkably clean and I wonder who cleaned the bathroom. And what did they use? One of those miracle infomerical products that Billy Mays use to yell about? Shazam – and the evidence is gone! Clean enough even for Lady Macbeth!
Then I see it – a darker spot where the floor tiles meet the tiling on the side of the tub. It’s an indistinct color and could just be the beginnings of mold, but I know it’s not. His? Or mine?
“Are you done?” Jaime’s voice floats in from the bedroom.
“In a second.” I get up, unsatisfied – open the door and dive back into the bed just as he jumps out, taking my place. I stretch into the warm spot he’s left behind.
Maybe I should give him more than the edited highlights. It’s not like he couldn’t find out everything for himself, but that’s the deal between us – he doesn’t want to do that; he’d prefer to hear it from me.
I just don’t know how you even say those words to someone you want to stick around.
When Jaime comes back out of the bathroom I stare shamelessly. He has the most beautiful body I've ever seen on a man. No tattoos - how I grew to hate those, those quotations that Justin misappropriated and had scrawled all over his skin. Nietzsche's 'God is dead' across his knuckles, parts of Hamlet's soliloquy up his thigh.
Jaime’s skin is brown and unblemished, smooth but for his legs and a tidy little tangle of black hair at his crotch. He's not bulky but he's hard when I touch him. His hips are narrow and agile; the last time we fucked he made me hold perfectly still, so that he could rock and grind into me in the hope of persuading me that sometimes slow was better. It wasn't an unqualified success - I'm far too impatient.
"Enjoying the view?" he says, sticking his hip out like a pin-up girl.
"God, yes." Once again I feel the thrum between my thighs. I'm close to sore but I could still go again. Last night I made him touch himself so I could watch - tit for tat. Then I sucked him off. Then he returned the favor, groaning all the while like I was the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted. He did it again when I went out for a smoke, kneeling between my thighs with his back to the railings. The night air was cold between my legs, making his tongue feel even hotter.
"Get back here," I say, holding out the covers. I like the hunger in his eyes when he looks at me; he's already half-standing to attention.
His kiss tastes of mint and I frown. "Mouthwash," he says. "At some point I'm really gonna need to lay hands on a toothbrush."